LEONARD AND HUNGRY PAUL

by Ronan Hession

  Facts at My Fingertips was a series of mass-produced fact books that Leonard had worked on a few years ago, and which he had recently updated as part of a revised edition. It was supposed to be full of lists and records, with practically no original content, but Leonard had rescued it surreptitiously by pouring his creativity into it and making the series into what one industry newsletter called ‘a future classic.’ Mark Baxter, BEd, was the overseeing author and hardly lifted a finger on the whole thing. Interns from his office just emailed all the changes and feedback, while Mark was away on the conference circuit, presumably sleeping with more interns, the BEd in his title providing a clue as to where he did his best work.

  ‘Oh no, I’m not Mark Baxter. He’s the author of those books, I’m just the content supervisor. He decides what’s in the book and I just write it up.’

  ‘Oh, really? Is that a job?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Leonard a little too sensitively.

  ‘I don’t mean it that way. I just think it’s unfair that you do all the work and he gets his name on the book. You should at least get a co-credit.’

  ‘It doesn’t really work that way,’ replied Leonard.

  ‘You’re kind of like a ghost writer,’ she said in a haunted house voice, relentless in her cheerfulness.

  ‘I suppose I am a bit. I prefer to be in the background. Anyway, better get back.’

  ‘Sure thing. Me too. Find any sugar by the way? Ah, never mind, I’ll just dip my biscuits in mine—would you like one?’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Leonard patting his slightly protruding stomach and immediately regretting he had done so in front of a girl, of all people.

  ‘Okay, talk to you next time there’s a fire,’ she said.

  Leonard brought his tea back to his desk and faked some typing. Too much in one day: first the Romans, then a fire drill and now a conversation with a girl. In fact, that was his first one-to-one conversation with a girl in a very long time. As he sat at his desk he went through the whole thing again. When he was chatting to her he had been slightly out of body, still sobering up from the intense immersion in his book. He catalogued his mistakes with an amplified sense of embarrassment: the way he missed her humorous cues, his stilted aloofness, his patting of his stupid, stupid, stupid, what-was-I-thinking stomach. He wanted to bang his head on the desk. To take his mind off the embarrassment, he tried to start a piece about the children of gladiators, and whether they got to see their dads fight, but all he could think about was his own ineptness. It was not even that he thought she fancied him, he just wanted to give a good account of himself. She took his side on the whole Mark Baxter, BEd, thing—that was positive wasn’t it? Why didn’t he even hear the compliment that was buried in what she said? She had offered him a biscuit—a biscuit for God’s sake. Why didn’t he just say ‘yes, thank you’ or eat it from the palm of her hand or offer to eat it together until their lips touched à la Lady and the Tramp? And the pyjamas—of all the days to make that blunder.

  Was he attracted to her? Or was it just that she was a girl and he should have taken the chance to notice whether she was flirting with him or just doing that woman/man office banter thing that he could never tell apart from real flirting.

  He thought back to what she looked like. His shyness meant that he unconsciously avoided eye contact, which meant that he wasn’t able to picture her clearly enough. A bit arty maybe—with intelligent but vulnerable eyes? How long was her hair—seemed to be about shoulder length, but was it a bit wavy or just messy? Her hands—nail varnish on chewed nails maybe? Rings or jewellery—Jesus, rings! He didn’t even notice a wedding or engagement ring. How could he overlook such a thing? She was probably married. Married women can be overly familiar with men without being misinterpreted, can’t they? How tall was she? Hard to tell: he was sitting down when they first started talking, then she was behind him and then outside she was standing on her own, so hard to compare, and then in the kitchenette she was sort of leaning against the sink, making her seem smaller than she was. She wasn’t tall, but hard to say otherwise. Her accent—what was it—her voice was kind of, what? Squeaky maybe? She kept putting on funny voices. The haunted house voice and other jokey things—was she kind of quirky or was she being nervous or nice or just embarrassed to be in a position of semi-authority and telling grown-ups what to do?

  He tried to get back to his work. The gladiators. Their kids. Come on, think Leonard, think. Every time he tried to focus, his mind drifted back to some other slip-up. He never even asked her name. What kind of rude, self-absorbed person would forget to extend a hand and ask her name? Idiot! He never even said his own name. All he said is that he wasn’t Mark Baxter, which was true of pretty much everybody except Mr Mark Baxter, BEd, himself. And he never asked her about herself. What did his mother always say? ‘Leonard, if you want to make friends, ask people about themselves.’

  Maybe if he’d had some warning he might have handled it better. Had he known that today would be the day when a girl, a real-life, probably attractive girl, would talk to him, make jokes with him, he might have prepared a little. He wouldn’t have worn a pyjama top. Instead, he might have worn a nice shirt, or knotted a jumper around his shoulders, like a winner. He would have shaved properly, or at least grown all stubble, or maybe even grown a big beard like lots of other guys in the office. And then he looked down at his shoes—black bloody brogues, with jeans. Good God!

  Not for the first time, he longed for an ‘undo’ button in his life. He wished that she had met the very best version of himself. He always felt that he stood little chance with women, but on his best days—wearing his newest clothes, after a haircut and a good night’s sleep—he just might be considered passable by some patient girl who could see past the superficial stuff and realise that he had the makings of an apprentice boyfriend. Not the finished article admittedly, but surely there was potential there. Hopefully she went to a mixed secondary school. If she went to an all-girls school he was finished. Those girls went out looking for the perfect man, their perfect man. At least girls who went to mixed schools had the attitude of ‘just give me something I can work with.’ He was certainly that. A nice, warm-hearted girl could possibly work wonders with him. Her friends would say ‘where did you find this one—does he have any brothers?’ While he didn’t exactly have confidence with girls, he did have hope. He saw loads of girls and thought them to be way out of his league, but he had also seen lots of couples, where the girl, the happy girl, was holding hands with a guy from his league. A sort of okay-looking guy who made her laugh maybe, or who made her feel comfortable in herself. You just needed an in, so she would give you a chance. A chance to get to know her. Not to blow her away—he knew he would never be that type—but at least for her to warm to him over time maybe; to overlook him, only to realise he was what she was looking for all the while.

  Leonard was getting overstimulated. Having gone through long barren stretches, his romantic feelings were now starting to awaken, with all their crazy body chemistry. It was exhausting. It was actually physically uncomfortable: all this genetic programming kicking in at once, while his poor fragile personality got run over.

  Leonard had little to say on the Romans that day. He left a little early to meet Hungry Paul who was under instructions to buy a suit for Grace’s wedding—‘by sundown,’ is how he explained it—and as Thursday was late night shopping, Leonard offered to keep him company and help him decide.

  One consequence of Hungry Paul not having a mobile was that he was always on time. You could arrange to meet him six months hence at a certain time on a given spot and, without any reminders or last minute excuses, he would be there exactly as arranged. When Leonard arrived early, Hungry Paul was already waiting for him. They decided to try Marks, where Leonard had bought his suit for his mother’s funeral, which he planned to wear again for the wedding, albeit with a different colour tie.

  ‘So, what are yo
u thinking of getting?’ Leonard asked.

  ‘I suppose I’ll just see what they have. I hope I can find something that fits. I’m a little bit in-between, sizewise.’

  ‘When was the last time you bought a suit?’

  ‘Well, if you don’t count the gi I bought for judo the other day, this is my first one.’

  ‘So what size are you?’

  ‘Dunno. Usually shirts that fit my shoulders are too long for my arms, and trousers that fit my short legs don’t fit my waist.’

  ‘What they call in tailoring, the orang-utan problem,’ offered Leonard. ‘Let’s ask them to measure you.’

  They looked around for a shop assistant, harking back to the days when shops actually employed people on the shop floor to help customers. Various middle-aged women in black clothes and name badges scuttled by:

  ‘Sorry, I’m just with someone.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m on my break.’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t work here.’

  So they tried to figure it out themselves.

  ‘What colour do you want?’ asked Leonard.

  ‘Not navy, as that’s too much like my post office uniform. Not black, because I’ll look like someone in a ska band. Not brown, because I’d look like a teacher. So, maybe grey, dark grey even?’ Hungry Paul had given this some thought.

  ‘What about this pinstripe one?’ suggested Leonard.

  ‘Nah, pinstripe is for a work suit, not for a social occasion. Besides, that’s chalk stripe, which is different.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Leonard, ‘I sort of expected you to be hopeless at this, to be honest. How do you know so much about all this?’

  ‘I think my mother thought the same. There isn’t much to know. Men don’t have huge variety in suits and I like to pay attention to what goes on, so after a while you notice who wears what, even if you’re not interested in a wearing a suit yourself. Let’s try the dark grey one.’

  Hungry Paul put it on but was defeated by his own proportions.

  ‘Maybe they could take it up, in and out?’ offered Leonard.

  ‘You mean that it would be a perfect fit if only the dimensions were all different. Hold on, here’s one of the orderlies.’

  Hungry Paul intercepted a male shop assistant, who looked about eleven years old and had ‘stock room’ written all over him.

  ‘Do you have this one in any other sizes?’ asked Hungry Paul.

  ‘I think it’s just what’s out on the racks,’ he answered.

  ‘So what’s in the stock room?’ interrogated Hungry Paul, QC.

  ‘There might be some other sizes, but I’d have to check,’ offered the shop assistant in the spirit of Muhammad going to the mountain.

  ‘Could I ask you to measure me first, just so it’s not a wasted journey—it won’t take a moment,’ asked Hungry Paul.

  The shop assistant found a measuring tape from somewhere and started measuring Hungry Paul, using what looked like a self-taught method he had only just invented that second. ‘Eh, I’d say something around 36”, short jacket and 38” short for the trousers,’ he guessed, calling out the measurements for E.T.

  ‘Maybe we’ll just look around. Thanks all the same,’ said Hungry Paul.

  The young shop assistant went through some double doors to finish his adolescence.

  Thanks to some methodical persistence, Hungry Paul managed to find a smart grey suit that fitted him well on top and which would fit him well in the trouser once it had been adjusted a little bit. He actually looked quite smart when he put it on, even though anyone trying on a suit in his stockinged feet (with protruding toes) leaves an impression tantalisingly short of the full effect.

  ‘What colour shirt—blue maybe?’ asked Leonard.

  ‘It’s not a policeman’s ball,’ said Hungry Paul. ‘White, of course. And for a tie, let me see. I’ll pick purple. It was always Grace’s favourite when we were younger. It was the colour of the wrapper of her favourite sweet in the Quality Street tin at Christmas.’

  ‘I suppose I better sort myself out too,’ said Leonard, inspired by Hungry Paul’s example. ‘A white shirt, of course, and for a tie, I’ll go for this nice green one—not too loud is it?’

  ‘Not at all. It looks like the colour of birch leaves when light shines through them,’ answered Hungry Paul, with a touch of poetry.

  As they queued, both men became smitten with the days-of-the-week socks on offer near the register and bought a set each. Tragically they had not realised that, far from making sock selection easy, they would be an absolute nuisance, and that once the first wear was out of the way, each sock of a given day would never again be matched with its counterpart.

  On their way home, with Leonard still in awe of Hungry Paul’s hidden aptitudes, they started chatting about the generalities of life, their duty for the evening now discharged.

  ‘So any plans for the rest of the week now that the suit shopping is done?’ asked Leonard.

  ‘My mam suggested popping in to the hospital with her where she volunteers, to see if I could help out a bit,’ answered Hungry Paul.

  ‘Very thoughtful of you to offer your skills as a heart surgeon for free. Do you have to bring your own scissors and glue?” asked Leonard.

  ‘Well, I have your book The Human Body to help me—what could go wrong? Actually, my mam does visiting there. Just walks around the ward and asks people if they want a chat, so she suggested I join her. I’m not sure I’ll be much use, to be honest,’ said Hungry Paul.

  ‘I never had you down for that sort. Talking to strangers isn’t usually your thing,’ said Leonard.

  ‘I think I’ll just sit there and listen rather than chatting much. I’m due to start doing it tomorrow. How about you—how are the Romans?’

  ‘Okay, I suppose. I’ve decided to do a basic job on the main book, as that’s all the author wants, but I’ve also started putting together my own ideas. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it, but I quite fancy a go at writing my own book. In fact I’m spending most of the company’s time working on my own ideas at the moment.’

  ‘You’ve always been able to write but you’ve just never seen yourself as a writer—you’ve always held yourself back. You know more about encyclopaedias than anyone—why so much self-doubt? If I were a kid I’d much rather read your books than the regurgitations of some absentee author,’ said Hungry Paul, with his mother’s gift for encouragement.

  ‘I was also going to mention that I was talking to a girl today. In work I mean. As part of a fire drill,’ non-sequitured Leonard.

  ‘The old fire drill romance, eh? What’s her name?’ asked Hungry Paul.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does she work with you?’

  ‘Not with me, no. But she might be in the same company, I’m not sure.’

  ‘What does she look like?’

  ‘A bit arty I think, but I’m not sure.’

  ‘How do you mean, not sure? Was she wearing a wrestling mask or something? Was it dark or foggy in the office today?’

  ‘I just didn’t get a good look at her.’

  ‘Was it a hit and run—did you get her registration plate? How can you know so little about her—can you at least tell me whether she was a liquid, gas or solid?’

  ‘To be honest, it was nothing more a chat. She was nice though, as far as I can remember,’ said Leonard, retreating a little.

  ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t joke. All I can say is best of luck with it. If you need any advice on how to mess it up, just ask.’

  ‘I will, old pal.’

  The two friends parted company, swinging their bags and looking forward to starting with the Friday socks the next day. Hungry Paul had a nice grey suit that needed taking up and Leonard had a tie which was the colour of birch leaves when the light shines through them. Coincidentally it was the same colou
r as the jumper worn that day by Shelley, the fire warden on Floor 3, who is 5’5”, has cherry-coloured hair, bites her red nails and is responsible for training and induction at a company called Physical Solutions Limited, which trains carers how to lift their patients without hurting their backs.

  Chapter 9: Thank you for the Roses

  The next morning Leonard got up early and made a special effort to iron his nicest, most contemporary, shirt. He matched it with some new cords he had bought but never worn, principally because they did not have the customary zip cover flap and Leonard was concerned that this might have some coded underground significance that it was best not to mess with. Shoes-wise, he was stuck with either his brogues or a pair of Adidas that he had intended throwing out. It would have to be the Adidas.

  As soon as he got in to work he tried to see if he could figure out where the girl’s desk was, but he had arrived too early and she wasn’t around yet. His immediate priority had been to try and unwind their last two conversations and replace them with a new first impression, something he could only attempt if it was the first thing he did that day, before his self-doubt got the better of him.

  He tried to pay attention to what the other guys in the office were wearing; in other words, he wanted to know what girls liked men to wear. Most of the men were young and whippet-thin, and could wear band t-shirts without looking like a deflating balloon. Some of them wore hats indoors; one guy wore a thumb ring, which surely couldn’t be right. A couple of guys were actually wearing paisley pyjama tops—had Leonard started something?

  When he got to his desk, hoping to make up for time lost the day before, there was a whole bunch of housekeeping emails waiting for him. A book he was finalising—Nature’s Factories, all about photosynthesis and pollination—had come back from proofreading and needed to be checked. He made up his mind to do the responsible thing and work through the various requests and then maybe try and find the girl at around lunchtime. Maybe she didn’t have lunch plans and Leonard might be able to mention casually that he was heading for a walk or thinking of seeing if there was music on at the bandstand in the park. He put on his noise-cancelling headphones and despatched a dozen emails, all signed off with ‘apologies for the delay in responding.’